


Sparks Will Fly

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nipple Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Few things are hotter than a chap in a suit that shows glimpses of a pierced nipple outline when he takes his jacket off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks Will Fly

"Sorry, I'm still not certain what..."

John was cut off by a groan of frustration that seemed to be wrenched from Sherlock.

"The information! The details of where the goods are hidden!" Sherlock span around, eyes sweeping over the room. "They must be here - there's nowhere else."

John glanced at Lestrade, who had the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I know that," John answered, voice level and calm. "I meant, what form might that take? Papers?"

Sherlock didn't look up from the drawers he was delving through. "Possibly. Code. Memory stick, disc, scribbled note on an envelope, possibly. We just need to look."

John's attention was taken by Lestrade, who sighed, shrugged out of his suit jacket and cast it aside onto one of the chairs, then put his hands on his hips. John couldn't help but let his gaze trail over Lestrade's shoulders, strong – defiant. "Sherlock, we'll do the shelves at that end, you start here, we'll meet in the middle, right?"

Sherlock waved a hand as if he didn't care what they chose to do.

"And we'll try not to make too much mess, right?" Lestrade said, forcibly, as Sherlock dumped a loose stack of paper on the floor, sheets spilling off every side.

 

John removed his jumper - the house had been shut up tight since the arrest, and was stiflingly hot inside. Then he turned to Lestrade. "You start on the left, I'll do the right?" he asked.

"Lets get to it, before his Lordship rips the place to bits around us," Lestrade agreed.

They worked in an amicable silence, both occasionally turning to glance at Sherlock, who was muttering to himself and making the odd exclamation of surprise or annoyance. John couldn't help but let his gaze slide away from the books, files and paper in front of him to glance at Lestrade.

During the past few months their relationship had changed - from a barely-there professional acknowledgment, through a mutual understanding of the difficulties that working with Sherlock presented and onto a friendship, which mainly centred around rugby, pubs and discussing those same difficulties. Or agreeing not to discuss them, depending how frustrating their days had been.

Recently, though, John had suddenly found himself less certain of exactly which path they were now treading. Shouts of celebration when I try went down or a kick flew over had turned to Lestrade now frequently slapping him on the back, or even throwing an arm around his shoulders. Eye-rolling and shakes of the head when Sherlock was in full flow at a crime scene had become nudges on the shoulder or arm and shared smiles at the situation they found themselves in.

John had spent his life surrounded by overt male bonding, watching squaddies interact, strong friendships manifest themselves in physical contact, and never once imagined there was anything behind it other than mutual trust and friendship.

But this felt different. He could swear he was being flirted with. And he didn't have a clue what to do about it. Except try to work out just why it excited him so much.

 

He sneaked another glance sideways, and felt a strange jump in his chest at the sight of Lestrade, down on one knee, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, leafing through a large file. His hair was spiked where he had pushed his gloved hands into it, dampening it with the sweat from his brow. His shirt clung slightly to his back, accentuating the muscle and bone.

John swallowed. And then realised Lestrade was smiling across at him.

"Drink after?" Lestrade offered. "Reckon we'll have earned it."

"Yes," his voice sounded different, and he hoped Lestrade hadn't noticed. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, great."

He ducked back to his work, systematically removing books from the shelves, shaking them, flicking through them, then stacking them to the side.

"Let me give you a hand."

He'd been so focussed he hadn't even noticed Lestrade at his side. He was standing on tiptoes, trying to pull the books from the highest shelves, fingers brushing uselessly against the spines. Lestrade stretched up, allowing the hem of his shirt to break free from his waistband, and John found himself at eye-level with a well-muscled shoulder. He couldn't help himself but look at Lestrade's chest - the muscles defined, but not overly so, and unbelievably, given the heat, his nipples standing out against the fabric.

Except, and John felt his chest tighten at the realisation, he wasn't just seeing flesh. There was a distinct, perfectly round, curve visible to the side of the nipple, and below it just the hint of sphere, small, but definitely there.

He looked away quickly, then felt a nudge on his shoulder, and realised Lestrade was holding out a stack of books for him to take.

"Dreaming of that first pint already?" Lestrade smiled.

John nodded jerkily, afraid he'd been caught staring. "Something...like that, yes," he answered in a rush. And then Lestrade reached up again, and John just couldn't help but look, try to detect the same on the other side of his chest, but the looser folds of fabric thwarted him.

He'd never really given any thoughts to piercings before. He'd seen enough gone wrong in the army to put him off for a good long while, but now, the hint of metal, the suggestion of the solid steel through the soft flesh made him ache to reach out and touch - run his fingers over it first, feel the contrast through the cotton of Lestrade's shirt. Then remove the fabric and let his tongue slide over the flesh and smooth, polished ring he imagined to be there.

He licked his lips, trying to drag his brain back to focus on the task at hand. The room seemed to have become a few degrees hotter.

 

Lestrade stretched up again, and stilled, then put a foot on the lowest shelf and hauled himself upward. John averted his eyes quickly, before the temptation to reach out and touch the smooth curve of Lestrade's buttocks was too much.

"There's…" Lestrade stretched a little more, revealing a stripe of smooth skin between his shirt and belt. "If I can just…"

John jumped as he finally dropped back to the floor, triumphantly holding a tiny memory card.

Sherlock grabbed it, then whirled away, pieces of his mobile phone scattering as he exchanged the card in it for the new one. He made a sound that, in other contexts, John would have found worrying, and headed out of the front door.

"Sherlock – Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, glancing around, then grabbing his jacket, searching through the pockets for the keys to the flat. But Sherlock was long gone, footsteps echoing down the stairwell. "Yeah, don't mind us, we'll lock up," Lestrade yelled pointlessly after him.

John smiled, feeling suddenly awkward, now he had been left behind – once again – with Lestrade, whose hair was a mess, shirt half untucked, and was looking decidedly annoyed.

"Well, as he's gone," John started, glancing around at the room, and the mess. "I suppose we should…"

"Go to the pub, while the goings good?" Lestrade finished, smiling suddenly.

"I was going to say put everything back…" John answered, wondering why he was trying to put off any chance of socialising with Lestrade.

"Bollocks to it. That's probably their old holiday snaps or something, and we'll be back here tomorrow, searching again. I'll come back and put everything straight if we need to."

John glanced out at the blue sky and bright sunshine, then nodded, returning Lestrade's grin.

Shortly afterward they pushed their way into a packed pub, fighting toward the bar through the crowds of people.

Once at the bar Lestrade pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, leaning one elbow on the wood.

"What're you having?" he asked, leaning close to John to make himself heard.

John was jostled, and took a step closer, virtually pressing himself against Lestrade. "Bitter – whatever they've got. Not fussed."

Lestrade nodded, and when the barman walked over to them he twisted and leant over the bar, shouting out the order.

John couldn't drag his gaze away from the clear ring under the thin fabric. He wondered how he'd never noticed before – but then again, the weather had only turned this week. Up until now Lestrade had always worn at least a jacket, if not a raincoat too.

A couple of pint glasses were placed by him on the bar, and he picked one up as Lestrade paid, but as he turned Lestrade did too, and the back of his hand just lightly brushed across Lestrade's chest, one knuckle making contact with the small bump of metal. He jumped away. "Sorry," he muttered.

Lestrade waved away the apology and they managed to squeeze back through the crush and out onto the pavement, joining the crowds enjoying the last sun of the day.

The street was alive with the sound of people chatting, occasional phone rings, the general traffic noise, which permeated every corner of London, but John was entirely focussed on Lestrade.

The way his hands were never still – gesturing, pushing his hair into a new state of disorder, tracing fingertips over his lips – an action John was sure was a left-over from being a smoker for many years. The deep brown eyes, almost black they were so dark, but which somehow shone with light regardless. And the smile that crept over his face – lopsided, boyish, and absolutely genuine.

John wasn't entirely sure if it was his third or fourth pint when they moved inside, as an evening chill settled over the city. Lestrade had put his jacket back on earlier, but showed no signs of wanting to leave. The pub had emptied considerably, as the office workers made their ways home after a few drinks. They sat by the window, on tall stools, watching the taxis and pedestrians come and go on the street outside. John felt warm – happy - the sunshine, alcohol and company collaborating to put him in the best of moods.

"Can I…can I ask you a question?" he said, around pint five, when the alcohol had begun to make the world go fuzzy around the edges, and Lestrade was just a touch out of focus.

Lestrade just nodded silently.

"Have you…Are these…these…" he reached out, pressing his palm against Lestrade's chest slightly too hard, as he misjudged the distance, watching as Lestrade jumped slightly. "Your…" And the question he might once have had fled his mind, because under his fingers was the slippery metal, the slightly hard nub of flesh, and he couldn't think about anything else.

Lestrade smiled, white teeth, dark eyes, rough stubble. "Are they what?"

John felt as if were caught in Lestrade's gaze, and maintaining eye contact he slid his hand to the other side of Lestrade's chest. As each finger bumped over the metal he felt the slight quiver of muscles, saw a quick flaring of nostrils. He didn't removed his hand, though, but dragged it back, this time his fingertips sliding the cloth across the jewellery, the back of his hand stroked by the smooth silky lining of Lestrade's jacket.

And suddenly Lestrade was off his barstool, crowding against him, smelling of beer and laundry and warm, sun-kissed skin. "Come on, we're both getting pissed. Fetch some take away on the way back to mine, yeah?"

John nodded dumbly, his hand having somehow come to rest on Lestrade's hip. He followed Lestrade out onto the street and ducked into the Underground after him. As they sat on the noisy, hot, train, surrounded by people reading the paper or studiously ignoring each other, John felt as if he might spontaneously combust. Lestrade's eyes never left him, the gaze intense, hungry, and John knew he probably didn't look any different. His eyes flicked from Lestrade's eyes to his lips, then further south, to the material over his chest, the slight bulge at the top of his left thigh.

He wondered how on Earth the other occupants in the carriage couldn't sense the sexual tension crackling through the air. He wondered what they would do if he were to close the gap between them and push Lestrade back against the door, kissing him, trying to rip open his shirt, to find the treasure beneath.

Lestrade licked his lips, a slow drag of the tip of his tongue, just wetting the pink flesh. John swallowed, wishing it were his tongue on those lips.

He virtually threw himself off the train at the other end, walking ahead of Lestrade, leading the way through the ticket barriers, all the time imagining what it would be like to rip the suit and shirt off, find out what lay beneath - touch, lick, enjoy every inch of the other man.

 

"Hey, hey," a hand caught his arm. "Slow down. We've got all night."

John smiled, nodding, and falling into step with Lestrade as the hand on his arm slid onto the small of his back, creating and extra patch of heat, a focus for his mind.

"Longer than all night," Lestrade said, so softly that John wasn't even sure he'd heard it.

The Indian was cosy as they waited for their order, and the scent of spices seemed to warm John from the inside, as Lestrade's body, pressed against his from shoulder to hip, warmed the outside. There was no need to sit so close, but John welcomed it. Welcomed the touch.

Lestrade's gaze lazily tracked the fish in the large tank opposite them. "Think we should turn our phones off?" he asked, not moving.

John turned to look at him. "So Sherlock can't interrupt?" a smile tugged at his lips.

Lestrade nodded. "Although he'll manage it, if he wants to. Landline. Loudspeaker. Homing pigeon. Taking control of a Russian satellite…"

"Bat signal?" John supplied, giggling slightly.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways. "Wouldn't put it past him."

"We'll pull the curtains," John nodded, and it was Lestrade's turn to laugh.

 

John had never been in Lestrade's flat before, and at first he marvelled at the space, the tidiness, the lack of clutter. A world away from Baker Street's chaos. And then he began to wonder where all the normal trappings of life were. The trinkets and ornaments and other dust-gathering items that people somehow accumulated.

Lestrade fetched some plain white IKEA plates and dished up the food on the low coffee table, pushing on plate towards John. He also flicked on the television, which was already tuned to News 24.

John's attention was taken from the screen when Lestrade sighed, put his empty plate down and leant back into the sofa. He licked the last trace of curry from his own fork, and put the plate down, twisting to allow himself a long look, from the curve of Lestrade's throat, down to the open collar of his shirt, legs splayed slightly open. Inviting.

 

He reached out, fingers tracing the front of Lestrade's shirt, over the buttons, watching as his stomach reflexively sucked in slightly when his fingers traced down. He shifted, moving closer, tucking one leg under himself, and realising he was being watched.

"Is…are…what are we..?" John started.

"We're making sure we're not having a drunken fumble that one of us will regret," Lestrade answered, voice husky, left hand finding John's thigh, thumb stroking over the denim, catching on the seam.

John just stared. And then, suddenly, Lestrade's hands were bunching up his shirtfront and dragging him closer, causing him to lose his balance. He would have sprawled across Lestrade, but the strong grip prevented it, and instead he had time to bring his hands up, press them against Lestrade's chest, and melt into the kiss.

 

Lestrade moaned into John's mouth as John's palms dragged across his nipples, tugging slightly on the two circles of metal. He slid down the sofa slightly, pushing his hands up under John's shirt, over the smooth skin, pulling him closer. John was sprawled across him, a welcome weight pressing down on him, and John's fingers found the jewellery and stroked across it. Lestrade broke the kiss for a moment, glancing down, finding the buttons on John's shirt and beginning to undo them as his lips found John's mouth again.

"Mmm," John's hands clashed with Lestrade's arms, as he tried to keep up, to get rid of the cloth separating him from his goal. He pulled away, somehow getting his legs back under himself, settling on his knees, still straddling Lestrade's thigh. "Want to see you," he breathlessly explained, fingers deftly pushing the buttons through the holes, until he finally pushed the shirt apart, exposing Lestrade's smooth skin, scattering of greying hair on his chest and belly, and two bright silver rings – one through each nipple. Except they weren't complete circles, and John reached out to touch, then hesitated.

Lestrade's hands slid up his thighs, and he flicked his gaze up to Lestrade's face.

"Can I..?" he asked, throat dry.

"Please." And Lestrade's voice sounded equally strained.

John felt the twitch at Lestrade's groin and he slid the pads of his fingers over the warm metal. The main curved bar was thicker than he expected, the ball on either end of it nearly touching, just a few millimetres gap. Lestrade gave a slight gasp and his eyes flickered shut. John took a moment to enjoy the sight – Lestrade with his head tipped back, mouth slightly open, rough stubble slightly silver. His shirt, now open, was pushed back to his shoulders, and he looked debauched, begging to be touched.

John leant forward, dragging his lips down Lestrade's jaw line and neck, over his collarbone and down, finally, to lick across the soft nipple and hard metal, tongue slipping between the bar ends, flicking the ring up so it rattled slightly on his teeth. Lestrade's hips shifted slightly, settling when John's knee was tight into his groin, one hand slipping into John's hair, the other tugging on his belt, freeing the buckle.

John gave the nipple a final suck, then allowed the spit-slicked metal to drop out from between his lips as he pulled away.

"Shi…don't stop," Lestrade panted, his hand sliding away from the back of John's head, stopping at his neck, thumb settling under his jaw.

John leaned in and kissed Lestrade's mouth, unsurprised when the lips opened, deepening the kiss, tongue playing over teeth, soft lips rasping over rough stubble, hot breath mingling, gusting over wet skin. And then John moved again, down to the other nipple, flicking his tongue over it, causing the metal to twitch up and down, and as Lestrade moaned in pleasure John slid a hand down to press his palm against the erection straining against Lestrade's trousers.

"Jesus," Lestrade breathed.

John paused for a second, rocking back on his heels, then further, standing and reaching down, grabbing Lestrade's hands.

"Come on," he dragged Lestrade off the sofa, but didn't fight when Lestrade's hands immediately found his waist, one sliding to the small of his back, and he was thoroughly kissed.

He grabbed his jeans as they started to slip down off his hips, laughing into Lestrade's mouth.

"What?" Lestrade laughed too, stroking his fingers down John's sides, almost tickling.

"Standing here, with my trousers falling off, snogging," John answered.

"Come on, then," Lestrade answered. He didn't let go of John's free hand, leading the way, palm warm and dry in John's, fingers strong, skin rough, shirt sliding down from his shoulder, hanging from his bicep.

The bedroom was like the rest of the flat – simple, uncluttered, almost utilitarian. But the bed was large, neatly made, the dark blue cotton sheets and duvet clean and inviting.

Lestrade turned, and John walked into his arms, sliding his own hands up Lestrade's stomach and onto his chest, fingertips just brushing the metal barbells, tracing the circular bar until he reached flesh.

"I never would have guessed," he said, and looked up to meet Lestrade's gaze.

"Good," Lestrade answered, voice husky.

"You don't like people to know?" he asked, tracing a line directly down, over the nipple, down to the split in the bar.

"Only some people," Lestrade answered, his hand coming up, covering John's, guiding his fingers to tug gently on the metal.

"And it doesn't…hurt?" John watched as the flesh pulled slightly.

"Feels fantastic," Lestrade's voice had dropped to a whisper. He dropped his hand down, pushing the denim over John's hips and watching as the jeans fell to the floor, then dragged gently fingertips over John's shoulder, pausing for a second to glance at the knot of scar tissue, moving his shirt's fabric and allowing it to slip down John's muscular arms.

John shifted, dropping the shirt first from one wrist, then the other, never losing contact with Lestrade. Then worked on pushing Lestrade's own clothes off him, not caring where they landed, slowly walking them toward the bed until he could shove Lestrade down onto it, and enjoy the sight of him on his back, cock rigid, resting on his belly, drawing his eyes back up to the shining metal.

He straddled Lestrade, one hand wrapping around his cock, feeling the jerk of it as he squeezed, his other hand finding and sliding over one nipple, and he caught the other barbell in his teeth, gently pulling on it, smiling as he heard the gasp of breath.

Both of Lestrade's hands gripped his hips, pulling him downwards, pressing their bodies together. He felt a shiver of pleasure run through him, and closed his eyes, giving himself up to the feeling.


End file.
